


No Dress Code: Post-Coital Crash

by GuileandGall



Series: No Dress Code [2]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Anger, F/M, Grumpy - Freeform, Regret, Rock Star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: The entire band is a little pissed to find Eli’s tires slashed.





	No Dress Code: Post-Coital Crash

**Author's Note:**

> Finally managed to get around to the follow up piece for Unstoppable Momentum, since Close asked to see how he reacted to his tires being slashed. Though I’ll own it, I’m not sure I was really feeling Eli in this piece, as much as I really wanted to capture him and his reaction—it felt very cursory and a bit distant from him.

**-1-**

Shaundi screamed at the massive contraption, then kicked the flattened tire. “Who the hell did he piss off this time?”

Neither Matt, nor Donnie answered, they both knew better. Tobias on the other hand, took a long pull on his cigarette and exhaled creating several thick rings of smoke, just because he liked to show off his skills as much as any of the rest of them. “Don’t be all pissy just because he stole your thunder.”

Her glare narrowed at the redheaded drummer.

“C’mon now, beauty don’t act like that.”

“It’s probably the boyfriend of whatever slut is sucking him off in the john.”

“It was backstage, thank you very much,” Eli chimed from the doorway.

Shaundi rolled her eyes at him. By the look of him, hints of blood near his collar, the bite marks, whoever he’d stumbled across did more than drop to her knees in homage. As if the pretty jerk needed any more ammunition for his enormous ego.

“Why are you taking things _out_ of the boot?” he asked Matt, thrusting the massive bass case in his hands toward the stick-thin keyboardist.

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” Shaundi all but growled at him. She was certain the situation all stemmed from Eli and his inability to think before he stuck his dick where it shouldn’t be.

Eli peeked around the rear door. “Oi! What happened?”

“Someone slashed your tires, cuz,” Tobias said, reclining against the windshield. Smoke rolled out of his mouth lazily, giving him a rather draconian appearance.

“Don’t worry,” Donnie chimed. “I called a friend. They should be here shortly.”

“That doesn’t tell me who did this,” Eli said darkly. It wasn’t so much about the tires as it was the fact that someone directed their anger at him.

“Guess next time you take someone backstage you might want to make sure there’s no boyfriend or girlfriend about to retaliate.”

Eli stepped up to Shaundi. “You’re starting to sound jealous, love. It’s not a good look for you.” He tapped her on the tip of the nose, then headed toward the bar.

“Eat me, Eli.”

“Already had a nibble, but you know I do love a good midnight snack,” he teased as he walked toward the door he’d just exited through.

“In your dreams.” She tipped her head at his retreat. “Where are you going?”

“You see, rather than standing out here fuming—”

“You’re going to create a reason to get the other two tires slashed?” she countered.

“Of course.” Eli slipped through the door. He wandered to the bar, getting the attention of a tall, dark-eyed man.

“What can I get you?”

“I’m with the band that played earlier.”

“I know.”

Eli grinned wide enough to flash his dimples at the man. “Have a little dilemma. Someone slashed my tires. I could use a gin and tonic and maybe a tow truck.”

“What was that?” the bartender said leaning toward the bar.

The rocker leaned on the bar, his voice dripping with sex and honey as he repeated the same information.

“Slashed your tires? Shit, sorry man. We usually don’t have a problem with things like that. I’ll have one of the guys check it out.” The bartender, seemingly immune to Eli’s charms, made the drink quickly. “On the house,” he told the purple-haired bass player before he went to the other side of the bar, talking to a very, very large man.

**-2-**

“How the hell did he manage that?” Furia mumbled to herself as she climbed onto the end table she had pushed up against the bookcase. She stretched, trying to recover her panties from the leaves of a plant sitting atop it.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she asked as her panty search and recovery reminded her she wasn’t sixteen anymore. Of course, if anything her actions that night also showed her that her foolish years weren’t all that long ago, or easily forgotten. Flashes of the evening replayed in her head. “Oh, that’s right. I wasn’t thinking.”

Finally snatching her lingerie, she hopped down off the table and slipped them on quickly. Her reaction didn’t stem from guilt, but lay nestled in an issue that was far harder to define—reputation. She was a Latina, working in clubs; she had done it all: waitressing, tending bar, security, stage work. And she worked her ass off. She was successful and respected in her line of work for her ability to turn her family’s clubs around.

Now, one indiscretion left it all hanging in the balance, at least in her mind. If it got out that she banged some random bass player in the hallway, she’d instantly become some groupie tart. That was not what she wanted.

She fell into her chair and stared at the door she had pushed Eli up against earlier. Part of her wanted to think it was a one-time thing, but her rebellious mind wrapped around the incident. Furia dropped her forehead against the surface of her desk.

**-3-**

Oleg ambled through the bar, he only had to nudge a few people before the rest parted before him like the red sea. He slipped down the empty hall toward the back exit, which only bands and employees used. The long purple hearse leaned to one side, the slashes in the wall of the tire clearly visible in the light. He knew what happened immediately though he said nothing.

The band was loading their instruments into a nondescript van painted with a rainbow of bright clashing colors.

He pulled out his phone and jabbed one button on the screen. “Boss, Rico’s calling a tow truck.”

The reply started almost instantly. He listened for a moment before saying, “The reaper belongs to the band.”

Looking around he saw the last member, the bass player, shirtless under his leather jacket meandering down the hall toward him.

“I got it,” Oleg grumbled into the phone before slipping it in his pocket. All the movement in the alley had stopped when his low voice carried through the area.

“Whose is this?” he tipped his head in the direction of the vehicle.

“Mine,” Eli called from behind him.

“Be more careful where you park in the future.” Oleg pulled his wallet out and plucked several bills from it. The boss had told him the amount, and it would be reimbursed immediately from the petty cash. So, he wasn’t the least bit worried. He folded the bills and held them out to Eli.

“What’s this for?” Eli asked, taking the cash.

“Next time read the signs,” he ordered, pointing at the clearly posted warning hanging a few feet above Eli’s hood.

_No Parking_

_Air will be removed from tires of unauthorized vehicles._

_Cars left overnight will be crushed._

**-4-**

Once the giant went back inside, Matt leaned on the door of the Reaper and smirked at Eli. “Told you that sign was no joke,” he remarked in that know-it-all tone they all hated.

Eli looked up at the sign. “Bollocks!”

He climbed onto his hood and his hand dove into his pocket. In a fluid motion and a flash of metal, the butterfly knife opened. He dragged the blade across the pristinely lettered sign.

“No Parking. Twats about. More like,” he muttered at the sign as he carved a rude symbol onto the sign.

“C’mon Eli,” the back-up guitarist whined from the van. “Leave it.”

“Piss off, Donnie.”

There was mumbling from the van. “You know what, fuck you, Eli. Let’s go.”

Eli didn’t pay it any mind. He was intent to repay whoever put up the sign. Angry muttering echoed off the moist brick as he worked. In vain he tried to dig it out of the brick, but it wouldn’t budge. And try as he might gravity thwarted his attempt to piss on it, which meant he’d just have to be satisfied with the cock he had crudely but deeply etched into the sign.

Making a final grand, rude gesture at the sign, he folded his knife closed and dropped it in his pocket. Then hopped off his hood, grabbed up the case that was about the same height as he was, and tromped down the alley with an ember of rage flickering in his belly. It’d be a miracle if he made it back to his rat hole place without getting into a fight with some unlucky sod.


End file.
